May 31, 2004
Amy Cutler
Dinner Party
Went to the Whitney Biennale and Amy Cutler's work knocked me down. The wordplay, the humor, the sharp blade, and also there's how well she draws.
Went to the Whitney Biennale and Amy Cutler's work knocked me down. The wordplay, the humor, the sharp blade, and also there's how well she draws.
May 24, 2004
Trip
Andrew and I are going to NYC for the week, where we will find and eat this bread.
May 18, 2004
Soft Pedal
Laurence sat at the keyboard, laying down the first and second violin parts for an orchestral score he was writing. Valerie sat in his study in the green wing chair, picking cashews out of a bowl. A short glass of rye and soda sweated beside her on the end table. She'd placed it on a cork coaster.
"I'll need your help with the bowings," he said. He deferred to her on anything technical that had to do with the playing of the violin because she was a violinist.
For the timpani part he asked Valerie to put her hands over the strings in the piano and kill the ring. She did her job, sat back down and took a drink. For the double-bass line he kept the pedal down. This is how he recorded the music on his ancient multi-track Sony - bottom first as he worked his way toward the top of the page. When he got through he'd want to know what Valerie thought as long as she liked what he'd written. This was the game Lydia's parents played: that her mother had opinions she didn't have to keep to herself.
That afternoon listening to the new piece, her mother looked like she wanted to cry but she wouldn't. Laurence thought visceral reactions were tawdry, that goosebumps were fine for Beatles songs, but serious music was sublime, religious; it nourished your soul not your nerve endings, but for Lydia, hearing his music was like seeing him naked. She stood outside the door and listened. A lump was in her throat, but she'd trained the tears not to go past that checkpoint. Her father couldn't handle how much she loved him. He'd be ashamed. She tried to push the pleasure out of her body and up into her head.
Outside the crape myrtles shook in the wind. A blizzard of pink petals filled the driveway. The pretty mess stuck on your shoes and last spring the white wool rug in the hall had been stained. Lydia went outside to sweep before her mother asked
"I'll need your help with the bowings," he said. He deferred to her on anything technical that had to do with the playing of the violin because she was a violinist.
For the timpani part he asked Valerie to put her hands over the strings in the piano and kill the ring. She did her job, sat back down and took a drink. For the double-bass line he kept the pedal down. This is how he recorded the music on his ancient multi-track Sony - bottom first as he worked his way toward the top of the page. When he got through he'd want to know what Valerie thought as long as she liked what he'd written. This was the game Lydia's parents played: that her mother had opinions she didn't have to keep to herself.
That afternoon listening to the new piece, her mother looked like she wanted to cry but she wouldn't. Laurence thought visceral reactions were tawdry, that goosebumps were fine for Beatles songs, but serious music was sublime, religious; it nourished your soul not your nerve endings, but for Lydia, hearing his music was like seeing him naked. She stood outside the door and listened. A lump was in her throat, but she'd trained the tears not to go past that checkpoint. Her father couldn't handle how much she loved him. He'd be ashamed. She tried to push the pleasure out of her body and up into her head.
Outside the crape myrtles shook in the wind. A blizzard of pink petals filled the driveway. The pretty mess stuck on your shoes and last spring the white wool rug in the hall had been stained. Lydia went outside to sweep before her mother asked
May 13, 2004
I'm bored with myself
May 11, 2004
Salome Magazine
I have a story (now in the archives) on Salome Magazine. While you're there, don't miss Nathan Oates' tense and sexy piece - "Spankings" - that ran a few issues ago.
May 10, 2004
Mileage
Darcie carried the lavender comforter home in a giant Macy's bag. Edward saw her struggling from the upstairs window and met her at the door to help.
"Sale," Darcie finger-spelled, smiling. She handed him a stuffed puppy that the store had given as a bonus. "Free beagle." Edward put the dog in the corner of Anna's crib with the lion, zebra, frog.
The nursery connected to their bedroom and they slept with the door open and the monitor turned up all the way. Darcie was deaf, but she knew when the baby stirred. Before Edward was awakened by the cry for the missing bottle, for the dropped torn cubbie that Anna liked to keep by her face, Darcie would already be at her crib.
"I can do this," he'd explain, but she couldn't sleep until she'd seen Anna for herself.
Darcie stripped the bed and Edward helped her put on clean sheets. He folded the thin coverlet into eighths and then in half again, and put it away in the closet.
They slept under the new comforter. The fabric was silk, smooth as new skin. Edward talked to Darcie until she fell asleep. He held her so she could feel the hum in his chest, and told her good things about himself that he'd never said out loud.
"Sale," Darcie finger-spelled, smiling. She handed him a stuffed puppy that the store had given as a bonus. "Free beagle." Edward put the dog in the corner of Anna's crib with the lion, zebra, frog.
The nursery connected to their bedroom and they slept with the door open and the monitor turned up all the way. Darcie was deaf, but she knew when the baby stirred. Before Edward was awakened by the cry for the missing bottle, for the dropped torn cubbie that Anna liked to keep by her face, Darcie would already be at her crib.
"I can do this," he'd explain, but she couldn't sleep until she'd seen Anna for herself.
Darcie stripped the bed and Edward helped her put on clean sheets. He folded the thin coverlet into eighths and then in half again, and put it away in the closet.
They slept under the new comforter. The fabric was silk, smooth as new skin. Edward talked to Darcie until she fell asleep. He held her so she could feel the hum in his chest, and told her good things about himself that he'd never said out loud.
May 06, 2004
Birthday
Today is mine. According to the Times-Picayune, I share the date with Willie Mays, Tony Blair and George Clooney. So far I've had a rocky start. Spilled coffee in my purse, snagged my white sweater with my bracelet, and the air conditioner in my car is dead. Andrew told me on the way to school that he forgot to tell me yesterday that his math teacher warned him to show up today with his hair cut or he gets a PH (penalty hall). I told him to push it over to the side. The rest of the day will be fine, I hope. I heard a Lou Harrison cello concerto on the way to the office, took the long way there so I wouldn't miss a note, and how beautiful was that? Very. There's a giant carrot cake in the fridge at work, the day's warm and bright, a good day to walk to the river with Malcolm and watch the tankers make the big turn. I'm grateful for so many mish-mashed, multi-colored years; 17,155 days, no two the same. (I'm glad we don't count our life in days. Or weeks. That's 2,450 weeks. Whoa, Nelly.) (You're gonna figure it out, aren't you?) Tonight I'll have dinner with M and A at the restaurant down the street and enjoy a small fuss.
May 04, 2004
Eyewitness
On Wednesday I was driving down Canal Street, headed home, with my brand new haircut a little too "done" so I had the windows down so the wind would mess it up. Andrew called. He'd just seen a shooting in the park across the street from our house. A bunch of African American kids from Kennedy High School had skipped school to have a crawfish boil in City Park. Andrew had just taken the streetcar home from school, and he was eating a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats, looking out the window at two guys who were mixing it up over a girl in a pink shirt. They started to fight and punch each other's faces, and kids from the crawfish boil came running over to watch. Like, 100 of them. And then some guy pulled out a gun and started shooting at one of the kids in the fight, and everyone scattered, went running everywhere. They dove through the hedges, hid behind cars and trees. Friends of the kid who'd been shot threw him in the back of the car and they sped off to the hospital. The shooter bolted, and when the police came none of the kids would identify who he was. When Andrew heard the first shot, he ran to the middle of the house, so he didn't see who had the gun, but he heard seven shots and saw the cars leave the scene.
When I drove up he was sitting on the front steps of our house with some of the neighbors. They were talking to the detective. Andrew described the cars by color, make, and spinners. He explained what the guys had on, huge white T-shirts and black denim pants pulled down low on their butts. The detective needed to establish a crime scene but he was having no luck finding shell casings, or blood. Andrew told him to look by the red and yellow Popeye's cup, that's where the fight had been.
Within minutes, the media arrived with their satellite trucks, and before Andrew went to soccer practice, he'd done two stand-ups, on Channel 6 and 8. One with Helena Moreno, the "hot" star reporter who manages to be the first one at every crime scene, which in New Orleans means she's first every night. He didn't want to show his face, so one interview blurred him, and the other one showed the back of his head. Everyone in the world, seems like, saw/heard him and so he enjoyed some notoriety. At school the next day, Father Hermes had him speak to the Juniors about what had happened.
I hope he's okay. He's not saying much, although he asked me to pick him up from school on Thursday and Friday. Blamed it on the possibility of rain.
The kid's in stable condition with a stomach wound, and the shooter's been arrested.
When I drove up he was sitting on the front steps of our house with some of the neighbors. They were talking to the detective. Andrew described the cars by color, make, and spinners. He explained what the guys had on, huge white T-shirts and black denim pants pulled down low on their butts. The detective needed to establish a crime scene but he was having no luck finding shell casings, or blood. Andrew told him to look by the red and yellow Popeye's cup, that's where the fight had been.
Within minutes, the media arrived with their satellite trucks, and before Andrew went to soccer practice, he'd done two stand-ups, on Channel 6 and 8. One with Helena Moreno, the "hot" star reporter who manages to be the first one at every crime scene, which in New Orleans means she's first every night. He didn't want to show his face, so one interview blurred him, and the other one showed the back of his head. Everyone in the world, seems like, saw/heard him and so he enjoyed some notoriety. At school the next day, Father Hermes had him speak to the Juniors about what had happened.
I hope he's okay. He's not saying much, although he asked me to pick him up from school on Thursday and Friday. Blamed it on the possibility of rain.
The kid's in stable condition with a stomach wound, and the shooter's been arrested.
recently
Another Sweet Holiday Gift Idea.
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Awww.
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A request for Jim Shepard.
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Pia's Nifty Gift Ideas.
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My Favorite Runners.
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Story Quarterly Contest.
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Clickable:
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You Try and Choose.
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Pop Up Books.
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Container Houses.
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aviary
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Pia Z. Ehrhardt.
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